"It's something we invented — like tennis, with one player and no net," said Qwilleran. "I make a sparrow out of paper and tie it to a piece of string. Then I swing it back and forth while Koko bats it with his paw. He's got a substantial backhand, I want you to know. Every time he connects, he gets one point. If he strikes and misses, that's a point for me. Twenty-one points is game. I'm keeping a running score. After five games last night it was Koko 108 and Qwilleran 92."

"I'm betting on the cat all the way," said Arch. He reached for a sheet of pink paper. "I know that cat consumes a lot of your time, attention, and physical strength, but I wish you'd give me some action on that Halapay profile. Another pink memo came up this morning."

"I'll be all set as soon as I have one more meeting with Mrs. Halapay," said Qwilleran.

Returning to his desk, he called Sandy and suggested lunch the following Wednesday.

"Let's make it for dinner," she suggested. "Cal is in Denmark, and I'm all alone. I'd love to go to dinner where there's a dance band. You're such a wonderful dancer." Her laughter left the sincerity of her compliment in doubt.

Be Nice to People said the slogan on his telephone, and he replied, "Sandy, I'd enjoy that very much — but not next week. I'll be working nights." The telephone said nothing about lying to people. "Let's just have lunch on Wednesday and discuss your husband's charities and civic activities. They've given me a firm deadline on this profile."

"All right," she said. "I'll pick you up, and we'll drive out somewhere. We'll have scads to talk about. I want to hear all about the Lambreth murder."

"I'm afraid I don't know much about it."

"Why, I think it's all perfectly obvious."

"What's obvious?"

"That it's a family affair." Weighted pause. "You know what was going on, don't you?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, I wouldn't want to discuss it on the phone," she said. "See you Wednesday at noon."

Qwilleran spent the morning finishing up odds and ends. He wrote a short humorous piece about a local graphics artist who had switched to watercolors after dropping a hundred-pound lithograph stone on his foot. Then he did an inspirational story about a prizewinning textile weaver who was also a high-school math teacher, author of two published novels, licensed pilot, cellist, and mother of ten. Next he considered the talented poodle who paw-painted pictures. The poodle was having a show at the humane society shelter.

Just as Qwilleran was visualizing the headline (One-Dog Exhibition of Poodle Doodles), the telephone on the desk rang. He answered, and a low, breathy voice gave him a ripple of pleasure.

"This is Zoe Lambreth, Mr. Qwilleran. I must speak softly. Can you hear me?"

"Yes. Is anything wrong?"

"I need to talk with you — in person — if you can spare the time. Not here. Downtown."

"Would the Press Club be all right?"

"Is there some place more private? I'd like to talk confidentially."

"Would you mind coming to my apartment?"

"That would be better. You live in Mountclemens' building, don't you?"

"No. 26 Blenheim Place."

"I know where it is."

"How about tomorrow afternoon? Take a taxi. It isn't a nice neighborhood."

"Tomorrow. Thank you so much. I need your advice. I must hang up now."

There was an abrupt click, and the voice was gone. Qwilleran's moustache virtually danced. Widow of Slain Art Dealer Reveals Story to Flux Reporter.

It had been a long time since Qwilleran had entertained a woman in his apartment, and he waked Saturday morning with a mild case of stage fright. He swallowed a cup of instant coffee, gnawed on a stale doughnut, and wondered if he should serve Zoe something to eat or drink. Coffee seemed suitable under the circumstances. Coffee and what? Doughnuts would look frivolous; why, he couldn't explain. Cake? Too pretentious. Cookies?

There was a grocery in the neighborhood that specialized in beer, cheap wine, and gummy white bread. Dubiously Qwilleran inspected their packaged cookies, but the ingredients listed in small type (artificial flavoring, emulsifier, glycerine, lecithin and invert syrup) dampened his interest.

He inquired for a bakery and walked six blocks through February slush to a shop where the merchandise appeared edible. Vetoing petit fours (too fancy) and oatmeal cookies (too hearty), he settled on chocolate chip cookies and bought two pounds.

There was an old-fashioned percolator in his kitchenette, but how it operated was a mystery to him. Zoe would have to accept instant coffee. He wondered if she used sugar and cream. Back he went to the grocery store for a pound of sugar, a half pint of coffee cream, and some paper napkins. By that time it was noon, and a reluctant February sun began slanting into the apartment, exposing dust on the tables, lint on the rug, and cat hair on the sofa. Qwilleran dusted with paper napkins, then hurried upstairs to Mountclemens' apartment to hunt for a vacuum cleaner. He found one in a broom closet in the kitchen.

One o'clock came, and he was ready — except for cigarettes. He had forgotten cigarettes. He rushed out to the drugstore and bought something long, mild, and unfiltered. After debating about the filter, he decided Zoe was not one to compromise.

At one-thirty he lighted the gas logs in the fireplace and sat down to wait.

Zoe arrived promptly at four. Qwilleran saw a lovely woman in a soft brown fur coat step from a taxi, look up and down the street, and hurry up to the portico. He was there to meet her.

"Thank you so much for letting me come," she said in a low-pitched, breathless voice. "Butchy has been watching me like a hawk, and I had to sneak out of the house I shouldn't complain. At a time like this you need a friend like Butchy." She dropped her brown alligator handbag. "I'm sorry. I'm very much upset."

"Just take it easy," said Qwilleran, "and gather yourself together. Would a cup of coffee feel good?"

"I'd better not have coffee," she said. "It makes me nervous, and I'm jumpy enough as it is." She gave Qwilleran her coat and took a seat in a straight, backed pull-up chair, crossing her knees attractively. "Do you mind if we close the door?"

"Not at all, although there's no one else in the house."

"I had an uneasy feeling I was being followed. I took a cab to the Arcade Building, then walked through and picked up another one at the other entrance. Do you think they might have someone following me? The police, I mean."

"I don't see why they should. What gave you that idea?"

"They came to the house yesterday. Two of them. Two detectives. They were perfect gentlemen, but some of their questions were upsetting, as if they were trying to trap me. Do you suppose they suspect me?"

"Not really, but they have to cover every possibility."

"Butchy was there, of course, and she was quite antagonistic toward the detectives. It didn't look good at all. She's so protective, you know. All together, it was a terrible experience."

"What did they say when they left?"

"They thanked me for my cooperation and said they might want to talk to me again. After that I telephoned you — while Butchy was down in the basement. I didn't want her to know."

"Why not?"

"Well… because she's so sure she can handle every' thing herself in this — this crisis. And also because of what I'm going to tell you…. You don't suppose the police would be watching my movements, do you? Maybe I shouldn't have come here."

"Why shouldn't you come here, Mrs. Lambreth? I'm a friend of the family. I'm professionally connected with the art field. And I'm going to help you with details concerning the gallery. How does that sound?"

She smiled bleakly. "I'm beginning to feel like a criminal. One has to be so careful in talking to the police. If you use the wrong word or put the wrong inflection in your voice, they pounce on it."